September 26, 2009

You know I love you most of all. But I've got to be honest. I wasn't quite ready to see you yet. Summer was pretty fantastic this year, and I was hoping she would stick around a little while longer. I guess she had other plans.

Anyway ... I'm putting you on notice. If you want to live up to her gloriousness, you've got a lot of work to do. But knowing you the way that I do, I don't think that will be much of a problem for you. You're always up to the challenge.

September 15, 2009

If you ever get to feeling too high and mighty, someone in your family will step forward and say something that will bring you crashing back down to reality.

Conversely ...

If you ever get to feeling lower than dirt, one of your kin will be sure to say something to validate that yes, you are indeed a big 'ol mess.

A real-life example of this observation ...

Me: I'm not real crazy about how that new girl cut my hair.

Mom: Yes ... I was thinking it looks a little thin on the sides, like it's all sucked in to your head. And what's going on with your skin? Is that a fever blister?

Dang, mama! Don't hold back on my account!

[A little background: Before I saw my mom that day, I had already determined--through a conversation with my friend Better Judgment conducted in the bathroom mirror--that I should probably just stay home. I was suffering from the lethal combo of a bad hair day AND a bad skin day. My curls were in full frizz rebellion, and I had a a scarlet beacon of ugliness shining forth from my upper-chin region.]

Normally, my mom pays me compliments when I'm not worthy of them, and she does things for me that I surely don't deserve. So when she opens up with statements like this, you know it's BAD!

Three days later, and my hair is looking slightly better. Grow baby, grow! But the nastiness on my face is looking as bad as ever. Shrink baby, shrink! I swear this is like being back in junior high, only now I have wrinkles to add to the unpleasantness.

It was 1987, and I was in the seventh grade. My mom, best friend Kara, and Kara's mom all crowded into the pickup to go see it on opening night at a little movie theater in Carlisle, Pennsylvania.

Girls' night out.

All of us--mothers and daughters--left the theater thinking it was one of the best movies we had ever seen. The music, style, and dancing brought back memories of long-ago summer nights to our mothers. And the dreaminess that was a young Patrick Swayze, and lines like "... most of all I'm scared of walking out of this room and never feeling the rest of my whole life the way I feel when I'm with you" made two fourteen-year-olds downright giddy. Would we find a boy that made us want to say something like that someday? Ah, the possibilities!

It's a cruddy thing that time does to us ... remembering back to how young we were, to how my mother wasn't much older than I am now, to when Mr. Swayze was vibrant, and alive and could dance. It was a lifetime ago, but it sure doesn't seem like it. Days, months, years, and entire decades gone in the blink of an eye. But oh, the memories! And these are some good ones.

September 11, 2009

It was a Tuesday. Just another day. I pulled myself out of bed at 5:00 a.m. and began my all-too-familiar workday routine--out of the shower by 5:30 a.m., out of the apartment by 6:00, and on the highway headed toward the city by 6:15. I got to the office by 7:00, poured myself some coffee, booted up my computer, and began working on my latest project.

Shortly before 8:00, a co-worker who shared a cube wall with me came in the door. She was usually an early bird like me, but she had to take her car to the shop that morning and was running a little late. She stood up on tip toe to peer over the cube wall.

"I just heard on the radio that a plane hit one of the towers of the World Trade Center."

I had a little radio at my desk, so I plugged it in and tuned in to a local AM station. I was expecting to hear the local news radio program and was surprised to hear the Good Morning America audio feed. Within a minute or two of turning it on, the anchors were saying, "Oh my God! A second plane has hit the World Trade Center." My heart fell to the floor, and I immediately felt sick. I knew right then that the world had changed.

Peter Jennings soon took over the coverage, and as the minutes flashed by, the terror that every American was feeling got exponentially worse. The Pentagon was hit. Another plane was missing. The South Tower collapsed. A plane crashed in rural Pennsylvania. The North Tower collapsed. I wondered when it would end. I'm sure we all did.

Eight years later, I still get sick when I think about the events of that day. I mourn for those who were lost, for those left behind, and for those who have died defending our freedom in Afghanistan and Iraq since the attacks. Most of all, I mourn the loss of our innocence.

September 09, 2009

Last night, Mom and I hopped in the car and headed south to the city to watch a movie. She's my faithful companion when it comes to any film that remotely ventures into the realm of chick flickery. Rob and I have similar taste when it comes to most movies, but he's really not down with the mushy-gushy girl stuff. I don't blame him for that. If it stars Sandra Bullock, or Reese Witherspoon, or Julia Roberts chances are good that it's gonna be a date with Mom.

So last night, we went to see Julie & Julia. First things first ... it's a LONG movie at around 2.5 hours. That includes the seemingly endless previews at the front, but it's still long and feels like it at certain points. But overall, I really liked it.

Based on a book by Julie Powell, it's a true-life, back-and-forth tale of the creative awakenings of two women--Powell and Julia Child.

As the movie starts, we see a middle-aged Julia Child and her husband Paul when they land in Paris in 1949 to begin a diplomatic assignment. Julia soon finds that she loves France--the people, the architecture, and the food. But as the weeks and months go by, she struggles with her role as a diplomat's wife. She wants some purpose in her own life and eventually decides that she'd love to learn to cook some of the French cuisine that she enjoys eating. The rest is history, as we see how she learns her way around a kitchen and begins an epic, eight-year journey to write and publish her famous cookbook, Mastering the Art of French Cooking.

We are also introduced to Julie Powell in 2002, a mid-level paper pusher for the City of New York who--on the brink of turning 30--finds herself asking, "Is this all there is to life?" While eating dinner one night with her husband, Julie reflects on some of the fond memories she has of her mother cooking Julia Child's recipes. She has a light-bulb moment and decides to challenge herself to try every recipe in Julia's book in 365 days. And the best, most interesting part of all of this is that she blogs about her year-long adventure. How fabulous is that?

Taken as a whole, the film is really inspiring--at least to this 30-something--because it shows that it's never too late to learn something new, get really good at it, and maybe even make a career of it. As if that isn't enough, Julie & Julia made this hopeless and hapless culinary failure want to get in the kitchen and try some new recipes.

I see this book on my reading list very soon ...

Bon appetit, mes amis! (All those hours of college French are still floating around in my mind in tiny bits and pieces. Ha!)

September 04, 2009

First, a promise. I promise that this blog is not going to turn into "all food, all the time." But I heard an interesting news story this morning and had to share.

State fairs around the country are competing for the most delicious but outrageous festival food. Past winners include fried PB&J (and ya'll know how much I love THAT idea), fried banana split, deep fried bacon, and fried candy bar. As if all of that isn't hard enough on the old arteries, fair organizers are taking it to another level this year.

Twisted Yam on a Stick--Spiral-cut sweet potato on a stick, fried, rolled in butter, and then dusted with cinnamon and sugar

Fernie's Deep Fried Peaches and Cream--peaches coated in a batter of cinnamon, ginger, coconut, graham cracker crumbs, eggs, and milk; deep fried and then served on a plate drizzled with raspberry sauce and sprinkled with streusel topping and a dollop of whipped cream; a side of vanilla butter cream frosting is provided for dipping

Texas Fried Pecan Pie--the name says it all

Country Fried Pork Chops--Thin-sliced pork loin, seasoned, battered in corn meal batter, deep fried, and served with a side of cream gravy or ketchup

Sweet Jalapeno Corn Dog Shrimp--shrimp on a stick coated with a sweet-and-spicy corn meal batter, deep fried, and served with a spicy glaze

September 03, 2009

Since my adventures in semi-vegetarianism (no fur or feathers, but scales and shells are okay) began almost two years ago, peanut butter has been a go-to protein source in my unconventional diet. I'd turn to the jars of creamy or chunky goodness a couple of times a week. But lately, I just can't get enough of the stuff. At least two of my daily meals--and sometimes all three--now somehow incorporate the Jiff, or the Skippy, or the Peter Pan. I eat it on crackers, on bread, on waffles, on English muffins, on apples, on bananas, by the spoonful, with and without jelly ... I feel like Bubba freakin' Blue from Forrest Gump only I'm extolling the virtues of a legume instead of a shellfish.

My four-year-old nephew now has more sophisticated culinary taste than I do. It's ridiculous! (And please no thoughts or comments about the root cause of this craving. I have no excuse other than a kindergarten-level palate.)

I guess one positive is that I don't seem to be gaining any weight on this here meal plan. In fact, I may have even lost a couple of pounds since I've hit the jar judging by the way my jeans fit. I've read about peanut butter diets in the past, and maybe there's some truth to the claims. Shout out to Jiff, Skippy, or Peter Pan--I'll be your Jared for the right price! Call me!